


Dress

by illwick



Series: Unwind [20]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom!Sherlock, Breathplay, Consensual Kink, Crossdressing, Dom!John, Exhibitionism, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Panties, Safe Sane and Consensual, Voyeurism, sub!Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-09 05:01:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15259968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: I don’t want you like a best friend.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired in no small part by Taylor Swift’s song, “Dress.” If you can listen to it and _not_ imagine these two getting freaky, you are clearly dead inside.
> 
> This work does make references to the previous installment from this series, “Crossed,” but it’s not essential to have read it; just know that Sherlock’s cross-dressing is a kink that both he and John enjoy, and have thoroughly negotiated in advance.
> 
> In the same vein, it’s important to note that John and Sherlock are still recovering from the events of the “Unwound” installment of this series, in which they’d temporarily put a stop to having power exchanges altogether. They’re slowly incorporating certain activities back into their repertoire, which is why you see some redundant negotiation around the breathplay; this is the first time they’ve done it since their hiatus. While this installment doesn’t have an overt D/S power exchange, there are undertones here that I think make it worth tagging while they’re still… riding with the training wheels on, as it were;)

“For fuck’s SAKE!” Sherlock slams his fists onto the kitchen table, narrowly missing the meticulous line of microscope slides traversing the right-hand side of it. The glass slides rattle ominously but stay mercifully put, and Sherlock closes his eyes as he huffs in frustration before giving his locks a resolute tug, the sensation grounding him back into the moment as he wills himself not to spiral into a fit of rage.

The doorbell rings again. He’d initially put it back in the fridge, along with his mobile, as both were being insufferably disruptive and he needed _silence_ in order to properly _focus._ He’d taken on yet another freelance laboratory assignment from a private client, but he’d actually been rather enthused about this one; the results would highlight the timeline of a rapidly-mutating form of mold spore. The company that had hired him wanted to profit from the results by modifying the ingredients in their best-selling allergy medication; Sherlock intended to use the results to time-stamp decaying bodies. It was the definition of a win-win.

But there would be no winners whatsoever unless he could get some damned _peace and quiet._ He’d already had to delay the start of his experiment for three days because John was called out of town to address some issues with his father’s health (John had been vague with the details, and Sherlock knew better than to pry), leaving Sherlock in charge of Rosie. She’d gone to daycare during the day, but mornings and evenings had been a jumble of frenetic domestic responsibility, making bringing his attention back to the Work considerably more challenging than usual, since he couldn’t remain completely immersed in it as he normally would. 

Sherlock’s mother had come by that morning to pick up Rosie and bring her to the country house for the weekend, so Sherlock was _finally_ able to concentrate, but the respite had been short-lived; his mobile had been buzzing since 8:22, the doorbell had rung at 10:26 (customary once-monthly visit from Mrs. Hudson’s sister) and again at 11:01 (solicitor), and now, not an hour later, the bloody thing was ringing _again._ Sherlock has half a mind to fetch it from the fridge and throw it unceremoniously off the fire escape.

He’s about to make good on the impulse when he pauses. Throwing the doorbell out would probably upset John, and John was bound to be stressed out as it was, what with having to deal with his family and all. It always made John stressed when he had to see his family. So Sherlock pauses, and after a moment of deep introspection, he elects not to throw the doorbell out after all.

Come to think of it-- he wonders how John is doing. Maybe… maybe some of the texts he’s been receiving have been from John. He probably shouldn’t ignore those. That would be a bit Not Good. He shuffles over to the fridge and fetches his mobile and the doorbell out of the crisper.

INCOMING TEXT FROM: John Watson  
<17 June 8:22> You awake, love?

JW  
<8:23> Just reminding you that your mum’s coming to get Rosie today so that we can attend Greg’s party tonight.  
<8:24> I should be home in time to take a cab over with you.  
<8:24> The event starts at 19h. 

JW  
<9:06> Sherlock?  
<9:06> Can you confirm, please?

JW  
<10:14> Sherlock, please respond.  
<10:14> I’m assuming your mum’s already been by.  
<10:20> I know you’re not thrilled about the party, but it means a lot to Greg.  
<10:21> It’s a big deal.

JW  
<11:03> Sherlock.  
<11:04> Answer my fucking texts, please.

JW  
<12:00> Sherlock.  
<12:01> Sherlock.  
<12:02> Sherlock.  
<12:03> Sherlock.

Well, shit. He’s bollocksed this up royally. He’s just about to tap out a response when the doorbell rings _again,_ but this time he’s holding the bloody thing, and he nearly jumps out of his own skin. _Shit._

“Coming!” He shouts as he clambers down the stairwell, resigning himself to putting out one fire at a time. 

He flings the door open to find a bike messenger standing on the stoop, a nondescript matte black bag in his hand. “Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes?”

“Delivery.” The messenger stuffs the back into Sherlock’s hands and departs, leaving Sherlock blinking confusedly in the doorway. 

He peers into the bag and moves to reach inside, but then thinks better of it; being in the business they were in, he’d learned over the years that opening unidentified packages sent anonymously was perhaps not the brightest idea. With an exasperated sigh, he turns and plods back upstairs, flings the bag unceremoniously onto the coffee table, and returns his attention to his mobile.

JW  
<12:04> Sherlock.  
<12:05> Sherlock.  
<12:06> Sherlock.

SH  
<12:06> John.

JW  
<12:06> For fuck’s sake, where the hell have you been?

SH  
<12:07> Apologies, John, I was trying to focus on some delicate laboratory work, and didn’t want to be distracted by my mobile. I figured if there were an emergency, you’d try Mrs. H.

JW  
<12:08> You’re right, I would have.  
<12:08> I’m sorry, really stressed with family stuff at the mo.  
<12:08> Didn’t mean to take it out on you.

SH  
<12:09> It’s quite alright.  
<12:09> Did you need something?

JW  
<12:10> I’m assuming the handoff of Rosie to your mum went alright?

SH  
<12:10> It did. 

JW  
<12:10> Rosie didn’t put up a fuss?

SH  
<12:11> Please, you know she associates my parents with sugar overload and being spoilt rotten. She was absolutely delighted to go.  
<12:12> Barely waved goodbye to me when she left.

JW  
<12:13> Why, Sherlock Holmes, are you being a little SENTIMENTAL about Rosie’s departure?

SH  
<12:14> Don’t be ridiculous. I was perfectly fine.  
<12:14> Glad to have her off my hands, honestly, distractingly adorable creature that she is.  
<12:14> Good riddance.  
<12:15> Now I can truly focus on my mold spores, which as we all know are the important factor in all this.

JW  
<12:16> Yes, the mold spores are undoubtedly the unsung heroes of this entire enterprise.

SH  
<12:16> Glad you’re seeing it my way, for once.

JW  
<12:17> ;)

Sherlock’s face flushes a bit. John could be _very_ distracting if he started feeling flirtatious, so Sherlock knows he needs to put a quick stop to all of this if he’s ever going to get back to his experiment.

SH  
<12:17> Frivolities aside, did you need anything else?  
<12:17> I really must get back to work.

JW  
<12:18> Greg’s party. 

SH  
<12:18>?

JW  
<12:19> Greg’s being honoured for 20 years of service at the annual Yard banquet tonight.  
<12:19> We’ve been invited as his guests.  
<12:20> We are attending.  
<12:21> You agreed to be sociable, polite, and inoffensive.

SH  
<12:22> Did I?  
<12:22> Doesn’t sound like me.  
<12:22> You must be thinking of someone else.

JW  
<12:23> It was definitely you.  
<12:23> I don’t know anyone else who would use breathplay as a bargaining chip for attending a formal event.

SH  
<12:24> Oh. That.

JW  
<12:24> Yes. That.  
<12:25> So in exchange for your good behaviour tonight, I’ll choke you the next time we’re fucking.

Sherlock’s cock twitches with interest. _Dammit, John!_ He clears his throat and crosses his legs, willing his arousal away.

SH  
<12:26> Fair’s fair.

JW  
<12:27> That said, I have some bad news.

SH  
<12:28> ?

JW  
<12:29> I’m going to be late. Family stuff. I need you to be there on time, and I’ll meet up with you as soon as I can.

SH  
<12:30> What? No.

JW  
<12:30> Sherlock, please.  
<12:31> Tonight’s a big deal for Greg.

SH  
<12:31> I’m not going to some hateful banquet without you.

JW  
<12:32> I bet Aaron will be there.  
<12:34> In a suit.

SH  
<12:35> Shut up.  
<12:35> Irrelevant.

JW  
<12:36> Fine. Time for the big guns.  
<12:37> I’ve sent you something. A little present.  
<12:37> You should’ve already received it.  
<12:38> I want you to go ahead and finish your work for today.  
<12:39> And when you’re about to get ready for the banquet, I want you to open it.  
<12:39> Will you do that for me?

Sherlock feels like he can’t breathe, and his heart is galloping in his chest. Oooh, this was a delicious turn of events _indeed._

SH  
<12:40> Yes, John.

JW  
<12:41> Good.  
<12:41> See you tonight, love.

The next four hours are _interminable._ Despite the fact that the restrictive time frame forces Sherlock to focus more intently on his experiment than he has all week, he can’t help but glance up at the clock every few minutes as the catalogues his results. He’s _dying_ to know what’s in the bag, and at one point, he seriously contemplates disregarding John’s instructions completely and taking a peek.

But no. That’s not what this is.

That’s not how this works.

Sherlock is going to be _good_ for John.

And in return, John will make this _good_ for him.

He sighs and shivers in anticipation, then redirects his gaze resolutely back to his microscope.

At long last, he concludes the final stages of his experiment, entering the last of his conclusions into his spreadsheet before sending it off to his benefactor. They’ll undoubtedly be pleased with the results, and the additional funds Sherlock will receive in return will make a considerable contribution towards the work on 221C that he and John have recently undertaken.

Sherlock smiles, rises, and makes his way resolutely to the sitting room.

The black bag sits unassumingly on the coffee table, looking rather demure and innocent, all things considered. 

But Sherlock knows better.

He reaches inside, and pulls out a small black box. Sherlock recognises the logo on top of it, and his breath catches in his throat.

There’s no way-- how could John have-- it was _impossible,_ preposterous, how could someone like _John_ have found--

But…

But this is _John._ Brilliant, amazing, marvelous _John._ Of course he’d found this place.

Of _course_ he had.

The logo on top of the box is that of a very discreet shop tucked into an unassuming alley just off of Savile Row. The establishment catered specifically to men of a certain class who happened to be fond of wearing women’s attire. 

Sherlock himself had been there only once, in his twenties. At the time, he’d procured a pair of silk stockings, a garter belt, a pair of black Louboutins in his size, a single pair of black lace panties, and of course, his bespoke bustier. He adored the entire ensemble and had mourned when he’d packed it away, believing that chapter in his life to be closed. A few months ago, when he’d finally had the opportunity dust it off and wear it for a case, John’s reaction had startled both of them; he’d reacted _very_ favourably to the lot of it, and it had opened a brand new door to their dynamics that still left Sherlock feeling punch-drunk with desire every time they indulged in it.

That said, they didn’t indulge in Sherlock’s cross-dressing particularly often. Sherlock had only worn the full ensemble twice since then, and while both times it had been absolutely magnificent, it wasn’t anything either of them wanted regularly. John had also occasionally bought Sherlock a pair of panties and had him wear them in the lead-up to one of their sessions of _unwinding,_ but those panties were usually simply women’s panties that they made do with, for lack of a better option.

But something from _this_ establishment?

This would be… something special.

Sherlock can barely breathe as he lifts the lid off the box.

And there, nestled into a supple lining of smooth black silk, is a pair of crimson panties.

They are the most exquisite thing Sherlock’s ever seen.

He reaches down to touch the waistband, and is startled to note his hand is trembling. As his fingers brush against the delicate hemline, a full-body shudder wracks its way down his spine.

He promptly sits down on the sofa, taking a deep breath before leaning forward to inspect them further. As cautiously as he can, he gently plucks them from the box and holds them aloft.

 _‘Exquisite’_ doesn’t even scratch the surface.

The panties are a deep, luscious red, sultry and unapologetically provocative. In the past, they’ve always stuck with simple black for Sherlock’s panties, making the occasional exception for a light blue pair John had bought him, and a deep navy pair that Sherlock had bought himself. But these are _red,_ glorious, unambiguous _red,_ the colour of blood and sex and desire, hot and heady and uncompromising.

They’re made of silk so soft it feels almost cold in Sherlock’s hands, despite the heat pulsing through his bloodstream. Two panels of intricate geometric embroidery frame the generous pouch in the front, leaving no question that these were specifically intended for male use. The borders are all lined with a delicate scalloped hem, elegant yet somehow not overtly feminine.

They are beautiful.

They are incredible.

And _John_ picked them out, just for him.

_God, John…_

It takes all of Sherlock’s willpower to not simply toss the panties aside and have a wank right there on the sofa, but he rapidly concludes that would rather defeat the purpose. If John wanted him to wear these tonight, it was clear he had a specific objective in mind, and Sherlock could be fairly certain that didn’t include him getting himself off in the middle of the sitting room a mere two hours before the festivities were set to begin.

_Fuck._

Sherlock places the panties gingerly back into the box, and makes his way down the hall for an ice-cold shower.


	2. Chapter 2

“Oy. Sherlock. You with me?”

Sherlock blinks himself back to the present to find Aaron peering at him, an expression of bemusement on his face.

“Oh! Um, yes, sorry. Just… distracted. Long week.” Sherlock shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, attempting to ignore the sumptuous friction of silk against his suit trousers. “What were you saying?”

“Just that the records on the Craneworthy hacking case from 1994 are set to become public this week, if you wanted to come by the Yard and check them out. I know you mentioned that case was a point of interest for you in your formative experiences with cryptography.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “Oh! Yes, I’d… I’d like that very much.”

Aaron grins. “Good, it’s a plan. Dinner after, maybe? There’s a new sushi place that just opened across the street.”

Sherlock takes a sip of his whiskey. “Perhaps. I’ll have to check with John.”

Aaron rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Of course. John, perpetually cockblocking me as I attempt to seduce you with nerdy cryptography cases and sushi.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Can you blame him? You should know nerdy cryptography cases and sushi are my two greatest turn-ons; you’ll have me wholly compromised.”

They both laugh good-naturedly. While it was true that Aaron had tried to hit on Sherlock a few months back (before he knew that he and John were together), and despite the fact that John is _constantly_ taking the piss out of Sherlock for having a bit of a crush on Aaron (and honestly, who could blame him? Certainly not anyone with two functional eyes and half a brain), John had been wonderfully indulgent of their burgeoning friendship. Aaron and Sherlock had developed a pleasant rapport that oscillated between professional consultation and flirtatious banter, and both were well aware that the nature of it was, in essence, harmless. There was a mutual fondness that had evolved between them that was neither sexual nor threatening in its nature, and John seemed wholly supportive of it.

And for good reason, too: Sherlock had to admit that having Aaron here was making the banquet tolerable, if not particularly enjoyable. Granted, they were only halfway through cocktail hour, and the stifling atmosphere of over-starched shirts and stuffy suits and firmly mediocre chamber music was grating on Sherlock’s patience already, but at least he wasn’t yet relegated to hovering awkwardly in some corner whilst trying to avoid contact with anyone he knew.

Just then, Sherlock’s mobile buzzes in his pocket.

INCOMING TEXT FROM: John Watson  
<17 June 20:16> You look stunning tonight.  
<20:16> Please tell Aaron to take one large step back, and refrain from touching your arm again.  
<20:16> You know how I get.

Sherlock looks up, his eyes frantically scanning the crowd.

“Ha. That’s John, isn’t it?” Aaron sounds incredibly amused.

“What makes you say that?” Sherlock still doesn’t see him amidst the sea of sombre suits.

“You blush like a schoolgirl every time he texts you.”

Sherlock scowls and narrows his eyes. “I do _not.”_

Aaron laughs. “Yeah, you really do. It’s adorable, honestly.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, come on. You’re lucky, you know! To still feel like that after being together for so long. What’s your secret?”

“Secret?”

“Yeah, like… how do you keep things fresh?”

Sherlock wills himself to not simply respond, _John buys me lacy undergarments like the ones I’m wearing right now._ Instead, he continues to scan the crowd, desperate for even a glimpse of John’s silver-blonde hair. “Oh, you know what they say. Communication, affirmation… loads of sex...”

Aaron snorts good-naturedly into his drink and Sherlock takes a sip of his own when he feels the press of a hand against his lower back.

“Hello, there.” John’s voice is low and sultry, and Sherlock turns in heady anticipation.

And God, John is _gorgeous_ tonight. He’s in his deep blue suit, the one that brings out the colour in his eyes, and his hair is coiffed in that perfect style that makes him look so distinguished, Sherlock’s knees go weak. He’s beaming up at Sherlock with a mischievous look in his eye.

“Hi, John.” Sherlock’s voice is about an octave higher than he was anticipating. His panties suddenly feel _incredibly_ restrictive.

“Hi, Sherlock.” John gives him an amused smirk, then turns to Aaron. “Aaron. Lovely to see you. Appreciate you keeping an eye on Sherlock for me. Really generous, that.”

Aaron clears his throat and takes a deliberate step back. Sherlock hadn’t registered exactly how close they’d been standing to one another, but he can practically _smell_ the testosterone wafting off of John as he stakes his claim resolutely at Sherlock’s side.

“I’m willing to step in for you anytime, John, you know that.” He shoots John a rather _pointed_ look.

John raises his eyebrows incredulously, and Sherlock stifles a giggle; leave it to Aaron to have the balls to goad John Watson on.

But for now, John remains undeterred; he simply smirks and returns his attention to Sherlock. “How’s your evening been so far? Are you… comfortable?”

Sherlock swallows. He meets John’s eyes, and a moment of silent electricity passes between them. “Yes, John. _Very.”_

John gives him an innocent smile. “Glad to hear it. What are you drinking?”

Sherlock is fairly sure his brain has short-circuited. The headiness of the knowledge that John knows _exactly_ what Sherlock is wearing beneath his well-fitted trousers is so intoxicating, he feels tongue-tied and dumbstruck.

“They make a pretty decent Manhattan,” Aaron interjects helpfully.

John doesn’t look away or even acknowledge Aaron’s presence. Instead, he just licks his lips and then reluctantly tears his eyes away from Sherlock to focus on the bartender, giving a vague nod in Sherlock’s direction. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

Sherlock is quite uncertain he’ll be able to hide his erection long enough to make it back to the table. He takes a quick sip of his drink and then shifts his weight from foot to foot, which proves to be a bad idea-- the silk rubs provocatively against his sac, and he utters a light gasp. _Christ._ In John’s presence, he suddenly feels inexcusably deviant, the knowledge that he’s wearing a pair of _crimson silk panties_ beneath his formal suit so consuming, he’s unsure of how he’ll muddle through the rest of the evening.

But then the bartender is handing John his drink, and John is engaging Aaron in a bit more chiding banter, and Aaron is leading them all back to their table, and then the lights dim and the speeches start and Sherlock is stranded alone with his thoughts.

Thoughts about what, exactly, he’s about to let John do to him the moment they’re alone. About all the wicked, filthy things John does to him, things John makes him do, rendering Sherlock stripped down and exposed and entirely at John’s mercy. And John’s sent him here tonight, wearing a pair of _tiny red knickers,_ just so he can sit smugly beside Sherlock as he shifts and fidgets, desperate for validation and release. _Christ,_ what John Watson does to him…

Despite himself, Sherlock zones out entirely. This entire experience had been abhorrently dull thus far (Aaron’s tolerable company aside), and Sherlock is wholly unsure how he is going through make it through a whole meal as well as speeches. Perhaps Greg’s recognition would happen soon and he could skive off and wait for John at home.

And oh, that would be lovely, wouldn’t it? To shed the constraints of this horrid suit and bask in the sensation of air against his bare skin, cooling the silk in that delightful way that made him shiver and shift, to perhaps pour himself out across the leather of the sofa and languish in anticipation of John’s arrival...

Or better yet, he could go to the bedroom and wait for John there. He could toss the duvet in the corner and stretch himself out on the soft cotton sheets, delighting in the way the texture of silk and cotton so beautifully complimented one another. Perhaps he could set out some of their favourite toys on the bedside table, just to get them started. He’d splay himself out like a pin-up, sultry and seductive, desperate for John’s return…

And what, exactly, did John have planned for them tonight? Was he planning to tear the panties away with his teeth before subjecting Sherlock to a rough, brutal fuck, leaving him bruised and tender and trembling? Or would he want Sherlock to leave them on while John masturbated himself over them, until he soiled them with the evidence of his arousal, leaving Sherlock feeling filthy and used? Or would he want to make love with Sherlock wearing them, peeling them away only as far as he needed to gain access to that most intimate place inside of Sherlock, riding him to completion before pulling the panties back up and telling Sherlock to pose for pictures? Perhaps he’d...

Sherlock is unsure of how much time has passed as he meanders through scenario after scenario of all the delightfully deviant acts that may be in store for him, but when he feels the familiar press of John’s palm against his knee beneath the table, he’s so startled he visibly jumps.

John squeezes his knee reassuringly and then leans over close enough that his lips brush the shell of Sherlock’s ear. “Easy there, love. The evening’s just getting started.” He sounds so bloody calm, it’s _infuriating._

Sherlock whimpers softly and shifts, closing his eyes before heaving a deep breath through his nose. He gives a brief nod and attempts to compose himself. 

John meets his eyes and gives him a reassuring smile. Then he runs his hand resolutely up Sherlock’s thigh.

John freezes. Sherlock can see a look of confusion flicker across his face even in the dim light of the room; his brow furrows, and his lips pull into a tight line.

John’s hand moves up and down Sherlock’s thigh again.

John blinks three times, and swallows hard. 

Sherlock bites back a smug grin.

Keeping his eyes resolutely locked on the ancient-looking officer croaking doggedly away into the microphone at the front of the room, John slowly leans back over and whispers as casually as he can muster into Sherlock’s ear.

“Are you… are you wearing your _garters?”_

Sherlock gives a nod so slight, it would be imperceptible to a casual bystander.

He can hear John swallow again, then licks his lips. “So you’re wearing your belt and your stockings as well?” His voice is low and hoarse. He sounds rather taken aback.

Lovely. This was going exactly as planned.

Sherlock nods.

“Anything… anything else I ought to know about?”

Sherlock shifts in his seat and crosses his legs, casually pulling himself out of John’s reach. He keeps his gaze directed towards the front of the room; if he looks at John now, he’ll lose his edge, and he mustn’t have that.

The game is just getting started.

Sherlock takes a sip of water and cracks his neck before bowing his head slightly to murmur back into John’s ear.

“I’m wearing your gift, of course. And then a little something extra that I’d been saving for a special occasion. Tonight seemed appropriate.” He sits back and stares as coolly as possible into the distance, pretending to be riveted by the speaker.

Sherlock doesn’t even have to turn his head to know that John is blushing furiously; he can practically _feel_ the heat radiating off of him. 

_Ha._ He’s got John _flustered._

Serves him right, smarmy bastard. Seems the tables were finally turned.

If John Watson thought that Sherlock Holmes was about to spending an evening at a _Scotland Yard event_ acting _polite_ and _sociable_ and _conforming to normative standards_ and not even have himself a _bit_ of fun at John’s expense, then, well, John truly didn’t know him at all.

John sits back in his chair and drains the last of his drink.

Sherlock shifts in his seat, a satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

It was going to be an interesting night.

\-----------

Things become a bit of a blur. Sherlock vaguely registers watching glazedly as a monotonous parade of speakers takes their place one by one behind the microphone. He applauds politely when Greg receives his plaque of recognition. He allows his water glass to be refilled twice. He crosses and uncrosses his legs. But most importantly: _He does not look at John._

Because right now, he has John completely wrapped around his finger, and he’s damn well aware of it. John had come here tonight expecting Sherlock to be desperate for him, needy and wanton and at John’s mercy. But Sherlock has issued a graceful coup, and now it’s John whose gaze is boring relentlessly into the side of Sherlock’s face, his breath quickened as he futiley attempts to deduce exactly what surprise Sherlock has in store for him beneath the folds of his elegantly tailored suit. Once or twice he shifts towards Sherlock, subtly attempting to get him within hand’s reach once more, but Sherlock coyly repositions himself just outside of John’s grasp. He’s not ready to relinquish the upper hand. No, not yet.

The sound of explosive chatter shakes Sherlock from his musings, and he realises with a start that the speeches have concluded. The clatter of dishware echoes all around them, and he notes that the other attendees are rising to their feet to mingle with the honorees, and he follows suit, fastening his jacket as he does so. John remains resolutely seated.

“Look, Greg’s just over there.” Aaron gestures through the sea of people towards where Greg is exchanging handshakes and jubilant slaps on the back with a few other uniformed officers. “We should go say congrats.”

Sherlock blinks twice, and notes that John is still refusing to stand One look at the distinctive sex flush making its way down the sides of his neck is enough to indicate why, and Sherlock internally smirks. 

Externally, he plasters on his most innocent expression before turning to Aaron. “You go ahead. I just need to… pop into the facilities. John, you ought to drink some more water, you’re looking flushed.”

John glares at him mutinously, but quickly clears his throat. “Right, yeah, just… long day. Probably dehydrated from all the travel. Go ahead, Aaron, we’ll catch up with Greg in a bit.”

Aaron shoots them a quizzical glance; they were both acting undeniably odd. “Um, right then.” Luckily, he seems to decide it’s not worth the effort to pry, and soon disappears into the crowd.

Sherlock stares down at John appraisingly. “Are you quite alright, John?”

John purses his lips, his eyes blazing with intensity. “You’re the detective here, what do you think?”

Sherlock bats his eyes as innocently as possible. “I think you ought to cool down a bit before we attempt to exchange pleasantries with anyone. You did make me promise to be polite, after all. I’d hate for either of us to do anything that might be perceived as…” (He drops his voice to the low rumble he knows drives John wild,) “...improper.”

John licks his lips. “Right you are.” He doesn’t avert his eyes. 

Despite himself, a shiver works its way down Sherlock’s spine. Christ, John was going to make him pay for this…

But now’s not the time to back down. Instead, he offers a casual shrug and a virtuous smile. “I’m just going to pop out to the restroom. Perhaps by the time I’m back you’ll be in a state to socialise?”

He’s bating John, he knows it, but John simply glares up at him, and shakes his head ever so slightly from side to side. _Oh, GOD, John was going to make him pay…_ “Of course. Go ahead, I’ll be here.”

Sherlock offers him a deceptively bland smile, then turns on his heel and makes his way towards the exit, letting his hips sway just a _bit_ more than he ordinarily would under the circumstances. He can practically _feel_ John staring at his arse as he takes his leave, and he has to bite his lip from bursting into giggles. _It’s not proper._

_Proper. Ha!_

He’s still chuckling to himself as he relieves his aching bladder (the line about using the loo hadn’t exactly been bluffing; the whiskey had caught up to him alarmingly quickly) and he’s nearly finished washing his hands when he hears the unmistakable _snick_ of the lock on the door popping open.

He freezes. Had someone just _picked the lock?_ What the hell--

And then there is nothing but _John,_ the unmistakable presence of _John,_ crowding up against him, shoving him against the wall, overpowering him, grinding into him, his motions measured and sure. 

Sherlock had wanted to maintain the upper hand. He truly had. But suddenly, John is all confidence and defiance and raw, unmitigated strength, and Sherlock’s knees go weak and despite his intentions, he whimpers as his head drops back to expose his neck in supplication, his best-laid plans no match for his submissive tendencies when John was behaving like _this,_ moving to dominate him, overpower him, taking control without a hint of hesitation. He could fight it, he knows, but he doesn’t _want_ to, he wants this, _this,_ John shoving him none to delicately against the wall as he tears open his flies and stuffs his hand unceremoniously down the front of Sherlock’s trousers to cradle his rapidly-swelling member, trapped in the confines of the panties.

Sherlock closes his eyes and moans.

“Oh, _Christ,_ Sherlock, shhhh, shhhh, just let me… just let me touch you, need to touch you, shhh…” John’s fingers slip past Sherlock’s half-hard shaft and move to cradle his balls, the sensation delicious as he feels the silk rub luxuriously against such a sensitive place.

John nips provocatively at the side of Sherlock’s neck as he cups his sac, licking delicately along his jawline as his fingertips press resolutely against Sherlock’s perineum. As if on instinct, Sherlock parts his legs as wide as he can, whimpering softly.

“Mmm, you like that?” John’s voice is low and gruff, and Sherlock bites his lip to stifle the cries threatening to rise from his heaving chest. All he can do is nod.

“Want me to get you off like this? Want to come, right here, right now? _Is that what you want?”_ John’s face is close, so close Sherlock can feel the heat of his breath, but it’s nothing compared to the heat in his eyes, determined and sure.

Sherlock whimpers helplessly. “Yes. Oh, God, _yes…”_ His brain has surrendered its mission completely, his transport taking over at the controls. All he can do now is thrust feebly against John’s wrist as John fondles his balls, the sensation of the silk overpowering in its intensity.

“You want to come?”

“Yes, John! Yes, gah, _please…”_ He slams his eyes shut as he struggles to get enough stimulation on his shaft. Just a little more and he’d be _there,_ he could _come,_ he could be--

Cold.

The air in the bathroom feels unforgivably cold as John pulls away, disentangling them completely, grinning like the cat who got the cream as he takes three deliberate steps back, putting as much space between them as possible in the confined space. Sherlock lets out an indignant cry before sagging back against the wall, breathing as though he’d just run a footrace.

John simply cocks his head appraisingly. “Hmm. Too bad. You made a promise you’d be _polite_ this evening, and I intend to hold you to those standards.”

And with that, John gives him a lascivious wink before turning towards the sink and proceeding to wash his hands, not even glancing back to take in Sherlock’s reaction. Sherlock slumps forward, hands on his knees as he heaves in ragged breaths, blinking rapidly to try and get his head on straight.

Christ.

For a long time, they’d refrained from using labels for what exactly they _were_ in the context of their sexual relationship. Sherlock objectively understood that in the nebulous sense, John _dominated_ him during some of their sexual encounters, and Sherlock would _submit_ to John. It was a dynamic that had emerged slowly, so gradually that it had taken them both ages before they were able (or willing) to identify what it was: a power exchange. 

Once John had sussed that much out, he’d begun doing fastidious research on the matter online, and things had progressed (relatively) smoothly from there. John had taken on the leadership role in their sexual relationship with equal parts gusto and grace, for which Sherlock was eternally grateful. John kept everything between them properly negotiated and _safe, sane, and consensual._ He made certain of it.

That said, Sherlock hated official labels. He knew from the minimal research he’d done that many people in relationships like theirs sometimes referred to their partner as “their dom” or “their sub,” but to Sherlock, the concept of giving it such a formal name had felt foreign at best, distasteful at worst. After all, while John may call the shots in the bedroom, Sherlock was clearly the more domineering in their everyday life. He and John didn’t need labels for what they were, they defied categorisation. They just… _were._

And yet, in moments like this, it becomes so pressingly, achingly obvious to Sherlock that he is _John’s,_ in a unique, wholly consuming way that baffles his admittedly prodigious mind. Moments ago he’d been all strut and swagger, yet all it takes is one sloppy grope and some murmured words in a banquet hall loo and he’s rattled to his very core, resisting the compelling urge to go to his knees right there in the middle of the restroom floor. It’s a dizzying, dazzling sensation, and he reels from it.

“Sherlock? You alright?” John’s drying his hands and eyeing Sherlock with just a hint of trepidation on his face; clearly he’s concerned he may have pushed things a bit too far.

Sherlock scrambles to reassure him. He rights himself and cards his fingers through his hair before reaching down to re-tuck his shirt and fasten his trousers. “Fine. Fine, John.”

John’s face transforms into a knowing smirk. “Good. Get freshened up, and I’ll see you back in the hall? We ought to give Greg our congratulations.”

Sherlock simply nods mutely. John takes his leave.

_Fuck._

Sherlock makes his way gingerly towards the sink, attempting to minimise the friction of the silk against his throbbing member. He splashes his face with some cold water, and takes a few deep breaths. He closes his eyes, and thinks about the least-sexual imagery he can conjure: Mrs. Hudson’s quilted dressing gown. Anderson at a crime scene. Molly’s cat jumpers. Mycroft eating cake. Hell, Mycroft doing _anything._

Eventually, he feels in control of his transport again. He adjusts himself and straightens his jacket as he prepares to re-enter the company of _polite society._

How utterly tedious.

Yet how strangely titillating.

He makes his way back to the banquet hall as unassumingly as possible, and is relieved to find Lestrade holding court by the bar in the back of the room, surrounded by John, Aaron, Dimmock, Navarre, and a few other officers whose names he’s never bothered to learn. Lestrade’s eyes light up as Sherlock approaches.

“Well, I’ll be damned. I thought for sure John was lying when he said you were here. You actually sat through that entire ceremony? I’m touched.” Lestrade’s cheeks are rosy and his eyes are a bit glassy, but the sentiment seems honest enough.

Sherlock offers him a tight-lipped smile and extends his hand. “Congrats, Greg.”

Lestrade’s mouth falls open, and he turns to John. “Did he just call me _‘Greg’?”_

John shrugs nonchalantly and takes a sip of his drink. “Told you he was on his best behaviour.”

Lestrade takes Sherlock’s hand and pulls him in for a rather awkwardly formal hug, and Sherlock does his best not to stiffen. He generally detests physical contact, but for tonight, he supposes, Lestrade can have a pass. “Cheers, Sherlock. Means a lot to me that you’re here. And that you’re behaving, for that matter.”

“Well, John’s promised to reward me with--”

“NOPE, nuh-uh, gonna stop you right there.” Lestrade holds up his hand and shakes his head. “That’s strictly on a need-to-know basis. Whatever John’s agreed to, I intend to go to my grave without hearing the details.”

Sherlock purses his lips, but John’s laughing good-naturedly, and Lestrade is, too, and for a moment, Sherlock feels a pulse of warmth that has nothing to do with sex. 

Affection. Sentiment.

The remainder of the evening is a surreal blur. Sherlock registers the events not in actions but in _sensations;_ He’ll be standing next to John as John engages in pleasantries with a colleague, but then the mere brush of John’s shoulder against his will send him into a spiral of aching arousal. At one point John’s hand brushes Sherlock’s as he’s reaching for his drink, and Sherlock recoils as though he’s been shocked, issuing an audible gasp. John just gives him a bemused look and turns away, and Sherlock stands trembling in the wake of his own desires. His body feels _electrified,_ every sensation increased by tenfold, and he honestly has no idea how he makes it through the remainder of the event without dragging John into some darkened corner and demanding to be had.

But he’d made a promise. And the thrill of John watching him out of the corner of his eye-- nothing too obvious, just appraising glances and gentle, indulgent smiles, nothing that could be mistaken as suggestive by any of their more oblivious colleagues-- is somehow overwhelmingly erotic. For John to know the state Sherlock’s in, full of helpless, hopeless yearning, but he’s being _good,_ he’s being so _goddamned good,_ he’ll prove to John he’s earned his reward, he’ll prove it, he _will…_

And then John is taking their leave, making some thinly-veiled excuse about the sitter, shaking hands and exchanging smiles as Sherlock hovers by the exit, predictably avoiding any more physical contact than necessary. Blissfully quickly, he finds John shepherding him to a cab, not touching him, no, he’d never be so conspicuous around their colleagues, but Sherlock still feels connected to him, drawn towards him as if by some invisible magnetic force, and he wonders idly how it was still possible that there were people at the Yard who know _nothing_ about the two of them, when to Sherlock it felt as if their intimacy were radiating off the both of them in neon technicolour, unavoidable in its vibrancy. How could anyone be so _blind?_

But none of that matters now. No, all that matters is that he’s here, in the darkened back seat of the cab, John’s presence beside him wholly consuming. Sherlock can’t move. He can barely breathe through the _want_ of it.

He closes his eyes.

And then John’s pinky hooks over his where Sherlock is resting his hand innocently between them. The touch is so slight, so innocent, but it sets Sherlock’s blood alight in an instant. His eyes fly open and he turns to meet John’s gaze, willing himself to take a steadying breath. 

John gives him a smile, and to Sherlock’s surprise, it’s not the rakish, calculating smile that manifests when John is about to take Sherlock apart. It’s a friendly smile. A warm smile. It is beautifully, simply _John._ “You alright?”

Sherlock nods and bites his lip, willing his breath to remain steady.

“Tonight wasn’t… too much? I was worried I might be pushing you a bit.” John’s pinky finger begins to stroke back and forth across Sherlock’s where they’re joined.

Sherlock shakes his head vehemently. “No, John, it was perfect. _Perfect.”_

He’d have to be blind to miss the blush that spreads across John’s cheeks, and John looks quite chuffed indeed. “Good. That’s… good.” John licks his lips. Sherlock uses every ounce of remaining willpower to fight the urge to press his own tongue between them. “I’m really glad you came tonight. It meant a lot to Greg.”

Sherlock nods mutely. He doesn’t trust his voice to remain steady. He just keeps his eyes fixed resolutely on John.

The corner of John’s lips quirks up, and he reaches over to cup Sherlock’s face in his palm, running his thumb lightly over Sherlock’s cheekbone. Sherlock trembles and leans into his touch. 

“Christ, I missed you, Sherlock.”

“I missed you, too, John.”

And finally -- _finally_ \-- John leans forward and closes the distance between them.

The press of his lips is chaste and innocent, and it takes Sherlock rather by surprise. He’d assumed that tonight John would be all heat and harsh demands, spurned on by days of frustration surrounded by his infuriating family. But instead, he is careful, reverent, kind… His lips move against Sherlock’s gently, tender in his ministrations as his tongue presses lightly forward, imploring Sherlock for entrance. Sherlock grants it without thinking.

John sighs into his mouth as he kisses him deeper, and Sherlock can’t fight back the moan that escapes from his chest. John isn’t even doing anything untoward-- his left hand remains linked with Sherlock’s on the seat between them, and his right simply caresses Sherlock’s face, maneuvering him into just the right position for John to take him apart. And they kiss and kiss and kiss for what may have been two seconds, or may have been two hours, Sherlock has no idea, he’s lost, _lost_ in this moment between them, more romantic than sexual and somehow impossibly more intimate. They make out like a pair of teenagers in the throes of puppy love, full of emotion and passion with no outlet for any of it beyond the slick slide of lips against lips and tongues against tongues, all promise and no intention.

Despite himself, Sherlock giggles.

John pulls away, an amused expression on his face. “What’s so funny?”

Sherlock clears his throat and attempts to string a coherent sentence together. “I was just thinking… I wish I’d known you as a teenager. I wish we could have done this as teenagers.”

John cocks an eyebrow. “Done… what?”

Sherlock fights off another round of giggles. “I just mean… I like making out with you.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it, but I’m rather relieved we’re not teenagers at the moment, seeing as how as soon as we get back to our flat, there are some _very_ grown-up things I’d like to do with you.”

Sherlock bites his lip as coyly as possible. “Such as?”

John simply gives him a smirk. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.” And with that, he leans back in, and they lose themselves all over again, surfacing only when the cabbie knocks on the partition (rather harder than necessary) and they tumble out into the night air, intoxicated with the promise of what was to come.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning - I don't go over the full details of their breathplay negotiation; that's covered at length in previous installments of the series, if you're curious. But if you're reading this as a stand-alone, just know that everything that transpires is safe, sane, consensual, and has been thoroughly discussed in advance.

Their walk from the taxi to the sitting room is shockingly chaste. John unlocks the front door with his steady surgeon’s hands (and thank God for that; Sherlock is shaking like a leaf and fairly certain that had the task been left up to him, they’d have had to consummate their encounter on the front steps). They make their way wordlessly up the staircase and into the flat. They divest themselves of their coats. John turns on the lamp in the corner. They face one another. They breathe.

Finally, John speaks. “Come here.” It’s not a command. It’s clear now to Sherlock that John won’t be dominating him tonight; he wants to make love to Sherlock. And Sherlock is going to let him. 

John extends his hand, and Sherlock walks the three paces to take it. John’s fingers wrap around his, and he pulls him in for a kiss.

But this kiss is nothing like the ones they exchanged in the back of the cab. It’s full of heat and raw, unfiltered _desire,_ and the next thing Sherlock knows, John’s hands have wandered resolutely to his posterior, and he pulls Sherlock’s pelvis flush against his own. Sherlock moans wantonly as he feels his member strain against the confines of the silk, rising to full hardness as John thrusts lazily against him, the outline of his cock painfully obvious even through their copious layers of clothing. John gasps into his mouth before pushing Sherlock resolutely backwards; Sherlock’s legs give out and he lands in his chair in a rather undignified heap, blinking owlishly up at a very randy-looking John Watson. He feels rather like a piece of prey that’s about to be utterly devoured.

John, for his part, simply licks his lips, and goes to his knees. Shuffling forward, he presses Sherlock’s legs apart, then reaches forward to unfasten the fly of his suit trousers. Sherlock issues a helpless whimper.

“Mmm, I’ve been waiting all damn day for this.” The sound of Sherlock’s zipper being tugged down sounds obscenely loud in the stillness of the room, but John simply stares hungrily at his target. “Let me see you, love. Let me see you.” Sherlock whimpers and his head tips back as John pulls his trousers open, revealing the panties at last.

“Oh my God. Oh my _God.”_ John’s fingers appear, stroking up the length of Sherlock’s shaft, which pulses resolutely against the fabric straining to contain it. “Christ, Sherlock, these are… you look… Oh my _God._ Do you like them?” He runs his hands commandingly up Sherlock’s thighs, and Sherlock is suddenly reminded of a very different conversation they’d had in this position, on John’s stag night, all those years ago.

He blinks down at John and shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

John meets his eye, and the weight of the moment suddenly feels potentially overwhelming.

But John (brilliant, amazing, incredible John) doesn’t let them get deterred. He simply lowers his head, and proceeds lave a string of wet, open-mouthed kisses up the length of Sherlock’s silk-clad shaft. By the time he reaches the tip and begins to suckle lightly at the head of Sherlock’s cock, Sherlock’s willpower is lost; he reaches up and tangles his fingers into John’s hair, holding him there, staring down at the sublime perfection that is John Watson performing magic between his legs. 

John works him over in a steady, deliberate dance of lips and tongue. The silk grows damp with saliva, ratcheting up the sensations tenfold, and Sherlock wails, attempting to spread his legs further, imploring John to take more, _more,_ but John remains steadfastly devoted to worshipping the spectacle before him. Sherlock can’t tear his eyes away: the image of John’s lips _there,_ pressed against his turgid cock, the masculinity of his phallus encased in the delicate silk a beautiful, glorious juxtaposition that leaves Sherlock trembling in its wake. John seems utterly transfixed as well; he appears torn as to whether he wants to stare down at the divine image of the panties, or up to where Sherlock is falling completely, irrevocably apart. He laps greedily against the silk before bringing up his hand to plunge it into Sherlock’s trousers and fondle his balls.

Sherlock cries out and yanks John away by the hair rather more indelicately than he intended; it’d be impossible to miss the grimace on his face, but he seems to understand the moment he meets Sherlock’s eyes. “Shit, sorry, love. Too close?”

Sherlock swallows and manages to croak out a sentence. “Yes. Sorry. Sorry, I’m… I need a moment.” His prick is throbbing, tenting the panties obscenely in the cool air of the sitting room. He feels utterly debauched.

But John (patient, perfect, marvelous John) just gives him a soft smile. “It’s alright. How about you take off the rest of those bothersome clothes and show me just exactly what you’ve been hiding from me all night, hmm?” He raises himself up to slump back into his own chair, and makes quick work of his flies before pulling out his own cock which, to Sherlock’s delight, is already plump with arousal and more than a little wet at the tip. 

Sherlock gives him his most dazzling smile. “Gladly.”

With a flirtatious wink, he first turns and makes his way over to the record player in the corner. He flips through the stack of albums beside it, jaunting his hip out casually in just such a way he _knows_ accentuates his arse (if John’s past reactions to this pose had been any indication) as he peruses his options, feigning indecision. He can hear John shifting behind him, clearly eager for Sherlock to get on with the show, but Sherlock doesn’t allow himself to be rushed. With deliberate precision, he finally settles on one: an old jazz record, one of his favourites. He and John had danced to it, ages ago, long before they were intimate, after a night of drunken revelry. As he drops the needle to the track, he wonders if John will remember.

As Sherlock turns around, he detects just the dimmest flicker of nostalgia in John’s eyes as the opening notes of the song waft through the room. But just as soon as it had appeared, the nostalgia is gone, replaced a by a consuming _heat_ as John’s eyes rake over Sherlock’s body. Sherlock quickly realises he’d best get on with things, or else John is probably going to lose his patience and drag him to the bedroom before Sherlock has a chance to tease him a moment longer.

Without fanfare, he reaches up and shrugs off his suit jacket, tossing it haphazardly over the back of his chair. Then he slowly, deliberately begins to unfasten the buttons of his shirt.

“God, yes.” John leans further back in his chair and begins to stroke himself. His movements are light, clearly just teasing himself to full hardness, and Sherlock can’t help but lick his lips as he watches John work himself over, already imagining the pleasure John will impart upon him with his _delicious_ cock. Christ, they’ve barely begun, and Sherlock’s all but gagging for it…

When half his shirt buttons are unfastened, Sherlock abruptly stops and turns his back to John, who lets out an indignant whimper. But before John can question his motives, Sherlock picks up his foot and places it on the coffee table, then bends over provocatively to untie his shoelace.

Behind him, John lets out a low chuckle. Usually John had a strict “No Shoes On The Coffee Table” rule, but Sherlock is being utterly shameless in his display, and John seems to have no objections as Sherlock makes quick work of his shoe and sock, then switches feet to dispense of those on his other foot. Then he stands and, without further ado, shimmies his trousers down his legs and steps out of them.

“Christ almighty. God, Sherlock, can you just… put your hands on the coffee table for a second, let me look at you.”

Sherlock bites back a giggle. John sounds completely wrecked, his voice gravelly and thick with lust; this was all going perfectly to plan. He obediently bends over, his shirt riding up over his arse to reveal his panties, the crimson offset beautifully by his black garters and silk stockings. He holds still, and lets John look his fill.

He can hear the sound of John’s strokes speeding up as he continues to pleasure himself, the sound of skin on skin accompanied by a series of soft, low grunts. He momentarily worries that perhaps John will become too aroused - what if he ejaculates prematurely, and then Sherlock will have to _wait_ almost a whole _hour_ until John is able to fuck him, and that would be horrid, wouldn’t it? Completely unacceptable--

“Mmmm.” The stroking abruptly stops, and Sherlock is pleased to hear the telltale sound that John makes upon squeezing the base of his own shaft, staving off orgasm-- it’s a familiar, welcome sound, and Sherlock smiles, internally berating himself for questioning John’s stamina. Of course John wouldn’t disappoint him, of course he wouldn’t…

“God, you look gorgeous, Sherlock. But didn’t you say you had something special to show me?”

Sherlock rights himself and turns around, narrowing his eyes at John. “This isn’t special enough for you?” He cocks his hip to the side and lifts the bottom hem of his shirt just enough to reveal the place where his garters clasp into the delicate lace garter belt.

John gives him a lopsided smile, his brow already endearingly dewey with sweat. “Come on, you already know how I feel about you when you wear such pretty things. But let’s just say I can’t handle many more surprises.” He makes a vague gesture towards his lap, and Sherlock’s eyes are riveted to where John’s cock is throbbing, red and angry, between his splayed thighs.  
Sherlock bites his lip and snickers, and John grins devilishly back up at him, and their eyes meet, and for a moment, everything just feel so _perfect_ that Sherlock almost can’t breathe for the love of it. They are _perfect_ together.

But Sherlock isn’t cruel; John’s been patient enough. Taking a deep breath, he reaches up and unfastens the remainder of his shirt buttons, then shrugs it off and lets it fall to the floor.

John’s jaw drops open.

For a moment, there’s just silence, punctuated only by the sultry notes of the music swelling in the background, and their own unsteady breathing. Sherlock simply focuses on staying upright, and keeping his eyes on John.

After what feels like ages, John finally closes his mouth. He licks his lips, then attempts to string a coherent sentence together.

“I. You. What. I. What. Is that.”

“It’s a corset.”

John blinks twice. “But it’s… it’s different from… your other. Your other. Thing.”

Sherlock nods diplomatically. “Yes, John. As I’ve told you before, the other garment is called a _bustier._ This is a _corset._ And this particular corset is designed to intentionally restrict my breathing.”

John’s eyes snap up to meet his. “You… You’ve been restricting your breathing all night?” His voice is suddenly sharp, laced with concern.

Sherlock hastens to quantify the situation. “No, no, not at all. I left the laces loose, there’s barely any pressure right now. Besides, I doubt I could bind myself in it very effectively, since it fastens in the back. But you… you can do it.”

Realisation dawns on John, and the allure of what Sherlock is offering is evident in the hunger in his eyes. But still, he makes no move towards Sherlock.

Sherlock clears his throat, and when he speaks, he keeps his tone even, unemotional. “John, this is well within our pre-negotiated terms. Nothing about this is designed to cut off my airflow entirely. It will merely restrict my breathing to a shallower, more frequent pattern. I’ll let you know if it’s uncomfortable, or if I need it to be looser. But I want this. We discussed bringing breathplay back into the mix, and you agreed, and this is something I want. Please.”

For a moment, Sherlock honestly can’t read John’s face. It’s disconcerting; usually he could read anyone like an open book, the minute intricacies of their expressions an obvious giveaway to their innermost workings. But in moments like this, John was a blinding, glaring exception; Sherlock has no idea which way this is about to go.

But then, John nods. It’s a slow, measured movement, but Sherlock can tell that he’s convinced John that his reasoning is sound. 

Victory.

For a moment, Sherlock can’t hear anything but the throb of his own heartbeat in his ears.

And then John is rising to his feet, making his way over to stand face-to-face with Sherlock in a series of deliberate strides. Then the next thing Sherlock knows, John has fallen to his knees before him.

He reaches up and pulls the front of the panties down, freeing Sherlock’s aching member, which bobs eagerly in front of him. John licks his lips, grips Sherlock firmly by the buttocks, and swallows him down.

“Oh, _GOD!”_ Sherlock’s hands fly to John’s hair as if by instinct, and John moans wantonly around his member as he begins to bob his head.

“Oh, fuck, John… John, GOD!” Sherlock doesn’t know what to do. John is salivating generously around his girth, working him over with practiced precision, and Sherlock feels useless, frozen in place as he succumbs to the sensation.

The next thing he knows, John’s hands are making their way from Sherlock’s buttocks up his sides, inspecting the silky fabric and stiff boning of the corset, before settling on Sherlock’s exposed pecs. Then John peers up at him, mouth obscenely full, and he _somehow_ seems to muster a _smile_ as he begins to pinch and twist Sherlock’s nipples.

And Christ, it’s incredible. When Sherlock had purchased the corset, he’d mainly been drawn to it as a result of its advertised usefulness during breathplay; the aesthetics of it were rather beside the point. It was a deep, midnight black, neutral and unobjectionable, without the frills or lace details that had drawn him to his bustier. And unlike the bustier, the corset didn’t cover his chest; the top of it came to rest just below his pectoral muscles, framing them suggestively. While he rather liked the way that it accentuated his masculinity, it hadn’t occurred to him until now that it would give John unfettered access to his nipples, which were notoriously sensitive.

But John’s taken advantage of it in an instant. He plucks and fondles Sherlock’s hardening nubs as he works over his cock with his clever lips and tongue, and before Sherlock knows it, his eyes are rolling back in his head and he can feel his balls pulling up tight in anticipation of release.

“J-John, I’m… I’m going to come.” It’s a struggle to simply form the words.

John pulls off and peers up at him intently. “I think you should, if you’re alright with that. Take the edge off so we can take our time with this, hmm?”

Sherlock nods dazedly. “All… alright. Yes, okay.”

John smiles warmly up at him. “Okay.” And with that, he brings his left hand down from Sherlock’s nipple to fondle his sac, which is still encased in the glorious, intoxicating silk. Then he leans forward and sucks Sherlock’s length deep down his throat.

Sherlock comes in a haze of heat and endorphins. John swallows him expertly down, never ceasing his ministrations on Sherlock’s balls or his nipple, and Sherlock cries out, a series of sharp, wet whimpers as the ecstasy overwhelms him. 

The next thing he knows, John’s rising to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before leaning forward to cup Sherlock’s face tenderly and pepper his cheekbones with soft kisses. “God, that was lovely. You feeling good?”

Sherlock feels rather like he’s been struck by a lorry, if the lorry happened to be carrying several metric tonnes of oxytocin, but he simply nods blearly as John reaches down to pull the panties back up over his spent prick. “Beautiful. Now let’s get you to the bedroom and see what this corset thing is all about, hmm?”

He vaguely registers John taking him by the hand and guiding him through the kitchen down the hallway to the bedroom, but everything feels blurry and surreal. The next thing he knows, John is turning to face him, his eyes bright and cheeks flushed.

“So… do you want to lie down on the bed, love?”

Sherlock blinks twice, his hard drive reluctantly flickering back online.

“It… um, it said on the website that it works best if you lace it while I’m… while I’m standing up.” The words feel clumsy on his tongue, but they seem to get his point across; John nods enthusiastically and gestures vaguely towards the wall.

“That makes sense. So… um, turn and put your hands against the wall, maybe? Yes, just like that, love, perfect. Christ, you look incredible. Now… do I just… pull the laces?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and summons all his mental strength to conjure the synopsis of what he’d read on the website.

“You’ll start from the bottom and work your way up. Once you reach the top, just secure the laces in place, and it will hold.”

He can practically _feel_ John giving a resolute nod behind him. “Okay, yeah, got it. Just let me…” There’s some awkward fumbling as John unfastens the loose knot Sherlock had tied himself, followed by the sensation of the laces being loosened along the length of his spine. At long last, John pauses.

“Alright. Deep breath, love--” (Sherlock inhales) “--and let it out.” The moment the air exists his lungs, he feels an unmistakable tension as the fabric of the corset constricts around his waist. John yanks the laces tight-- _tight, Christ,_ he’s really not holding back-- and Sherlock gasps despite himself as his fingers claw futilely against the wall.

“You okay, Sherlock?” John’s fingers have paused, holding the laces taut but clearly awaiting the go-ahead.

Sherlock nods fervently. “Yes. Yes, John, it’s good, it feels good. Again.”

“Alright. Breathe in-- and now let it out.” With that, John pulls the laces once more, tightening the corset further up Sherlock’s midsection. He closes his eyes and leans into the sensation; the boning of the corset has started to restrict the expansion of his diaphragm, and he fights the urge rising from the primal portion of his brain to fight against the confinement.

“Okay, love? More?”

“Yes, John. Go ahead, more.” His voice sounds high and wheezy even in his own ears, but John doesn’t second guess his consent. Before Sherlock can process it, John is pulling the laces tighter, working his way deliberately up Sherlock’s spine until his breaths are coming in aborted, shallow gasps. By the time John reaches the top of the corset and goes about securing the lacing in place with a knot, Sherlock feels rather dizzy with the overwhelming headiness of it all.

He leans forward to rest his forehead against the cool wall. He’s vaguely aware that he’s shaking slightly, strangely exerted from the mere act of subjecting himself to the bondage, and he wills himself to stay steady.

“Hey. You with me, Sherlock?” He feels John’s lips press gently against the top vertebrae of his spine.

“Yes. I’m okay. Just need a moment.”

“You want me to loosen it a bit? I can--”

“No!” Sherlock spins around wildly, which proves to be a bit much for his current condition; he slumps back against the wall, but keeps his gaze focused on John, willing him to understand. His breaths are coming in aborted gasps, making speech a bit of a struggle. “It’s not. Too much. It feels. Good. I need. To adjust. For a second. Please.”

For a moment he worries that John may not take him at his word, but one look at John’s eyes, and Sherlock knows John is as far gone as he is.

John’s pupils are so dilated his eyes look nearly black. He’s staring down at Sherlock’s torso, forced into an hourglass shape by the relentless boning of the corset, his pale chest heaving helplessly above the black satin of his bindings. Sherlock notes with a thrill that while John’s still wearing his suit (John _knows_ how much Sherlock adores it when he stays fully clothed while Sherlock strips down to his skivvies), he looks completely disheveled; his tie is crooked, his hair is mussed, and his flies are open, exposing his still-turgid cock. He looks _wrecked._

Sherlock gives him a lecherous smile.

“Oh my GOD.” And with that, John _attacks._

The next thing he knows, he’s pressed back against the wall, his legs wrapped around John’s waist, his arms draped desperately around John’s shoulders, and he’s holding on for dear life as John thrusts and grinds frantically against him as he sucks and bites a series of marks down the side of Sherlock’s neck. 

Sherlock tips his head back and surrenders to the onslaught. He tries to let out a moan, but his breathing is so restricted it comes out as a pathetic whimper, which only seems to spurn John on. He drives Sherlock back relentlessly against the wall, thrusting his eager prick against the slick silk of Sherlock’s panties, panting obscenely as he sinks his teeth resolutely into the base of Sherlock’s trapezius. 

Sherlock slams his eyes shut and hooks his ankles together at the small of John’s back. John moans and tips his head up to nibble Sherlock’s earlobe, and to his own surprise, Sherlock can feel his cock begin to rise to full attention once again.

It’s a beautiful coincidence, Sherlock thinks happily to himself, the way he and John compliment one another so perfectly during sex. While Sherlock may not have John’s stamina, what he _does_ possess is an apparently abnormally short refractory period. While he’d never had much cause to examine his own refractory period in comparison to that of the general population prior to meeting John, once they’d begun getting each other off, John had had no qualms about commenting on how quickly Sherlock was able to recover between rounds. Once he’d done some research to back up John’s claims, Sherlock was quite pleased to note that his refractory period was _indeed_ enviably short, a happy circumstance of which John seemed all too eager to take advantage.

And tonight is no exception. John continues to press resolutely against him, magnifying the friction between their engorged lengths until Sherlock is fully erect and panting helplessly, wondering wildly if he was about to come inside his panties before they could get much further.

“J-John! John, I...oh GOD!”

John reluctantly relinquishes his hold on where he’d been sucking a love bite just below Sherlock’s right ear, and pulls back to meet his eyes. His brow is furrowed with concern.

“You alright, Sherlock?”

“I. I need. You to fuck me. Now. Please.”

John’s expression breaks into a bemused grin. “Oh, is that so?” He swivels his hips suggestively, and Sherlock moans as the friction through the silk of the panties sends sparks up his spine.

“God! John, please. Please. Need you.”

John leans in and kisses Sherlock deeply, his tongue prodding hotly into his mouth. Sherlock whimpers in return, but to his relief, John quickly pulls away.

“I suppose, if you insist. Hold on.”

Instinctively, Sherlock clamps his thighs even tighter around John’s waist and wraps his arms resolutely around John’s neck. John pulls him away from the wall, spins them around, and in three quick strides, deposits Sherlock rather unceremoniously onto the bed.

Sherlock splays out luxuriously, relinquishing his hold on John and sinking into the sheets with a relieved sigh. His cock feels hot and he can tell it’s tenting his panties obscenely; John’s gaze seems riveted to it as Sherlock spreads his legs wantonly, leaving no uncertainty about his desires. John hovers above him, taking in the spectacle, and Sherlock preens under his gaze. 

Finally, John rights himself and turns away just long enough to rummage through the drawer of the bedside table for the lube. Sherlock takes the opportunity to arch his back, relieving the pressure of the corset enough that he’s able to suck down one or two full breaths before John is turning back to him, tapping his hip, their unspoken signal for Sherlock to roll over.

Sherlock does so without hesitation. He raises himself up onto his elbows and knees, back arched, arse presented for John’s use. Behind him, John moans, then slowly peels the back side of the panties down.

“Oh my God. Oh my God, Sherlock. You look incredible.”

Sherlock can’t think to do much of anything besides give his hips a seductive little wiggle, prompting John to bark out a laugh and issue a playful slap to his right arsecheek.

“Hold still, you. Let’s get you ready to take me.”

And with that, John slips two slick fingers inside.

Sherlock gasps. At least, he tries to, but the corset is so restrictive in this position that the most he can muster is a light, strange hiccuping sound that seems to get trapped in his heaving chest. He twists his fingers helplessly in the sheets as John diligently works him open. He wants to cry out, moan, beg, but he can’t do anything besides pant helplessly, the world around him swaying in and out of focus. His breaths are sharp and shallow, and while he doesn’t feel deprived enough of oxygen to be concerned about bloodflow to his brain, the sensation of the bondage is wholly consuming; he feels completely at John’s mercy.

Before he knows it, John’s fingers are gone, leaving him feeling open and exposed, but it’s followed quickly by the soothing sensation of John’s hands stroking up and down his sides before coming to rest on his hips, steadying him, holding him in place.

“You feeling good, Sherlock?”

“Yes.” Sherlock wants to elaborate, but he can’t catch his breath, so he simply accompanies his consent with a vigorous nod.

“Mmm, I’m glad. God, you look so amazing. Your waist, Christ almighty, so gorgeous…” John’s hands meander to close around the narrowest point of the corset. “You want me to fuck you now?”

“Yes.”

“Mmm. Ask me nicely.” John’s hands start to wander once more, his fingers toying with the garters perched atop Sherlock’s arsecheeks, following their trail to where they clip into the tops of his silk stockings.

“God, John. John, please. Fuck me. I need it. Please. Want you. So badly.” He rolls his hips and undulates his spine as seductively as he can, desperate for John’s advances. His voice sounds needy and breathless, but he can’t be arsed to care; the only thing that matters in this moment is getting John Watson’s cock inside him as soon as possible, no matter what it takes.

John’s left hand reaches around to cup Sherlock’s erection, which twitches enthusiastically against the confines of the silk. He strokes him lazily, and Sherlock’s forehead falls forward to his forearms as he whimpers wantonly. “John. John, I. Need you. Now, please. Take me. I’m yours.”

Behind him, John _finally_ lets out a contented hum. “Well, since you asked so nicely.” And with that, he reaches down and grips Sherlock’s buttocks firmly in his palms, parts them, and presses his cock inside in one forceful motion.

Sherlock tries to moan, but he can’t get enough air. He pants desperately against the confines of the corset, slamming his eyes shut, his body electrified by the brutal intrusion. “Oh, that’s it, love, you feel incredible.” John’s voice is soothing and affirming, and Sherlock grunts softly into the bedsheets as John grips him by the waist, adjusting his angle of penetration and giving Sherlock a chance to adjust to the stretch. “Mmm, there we go, just relax now, yeah, just like that. Perfect, you’re so perfect, I’m so lucky to have you, you’re brilliant, love, just relax now, shhh…”

John’s words are a welcome elixir. As if by command, Sherlock can feel his muscles relaxing, and he’s able to regain control of his breathing. He still can’t inhale particularly deeply, but he establishes a pattern that delivers sufficient oxygen, and he no longer feels trapped or confined by the corset. He feels safe.

“Ohhhhh, yes, love. Just like that. Take me a little deeper, now, just hold still, hold still…” John hold Sherlock firmly in place by the waist, then withdraws his cock almost completely before thrusting it firmly back inside, penetrating Sherlock more deeply than before. “There we go, so lovely, so lovely. You’re taking me so well. Just relax now, let me have you, shhh…”

John sets a steady rhythm. It’s somewhere between the frantic coupling of their fast-and-frenzied quickies and the slow, smooth drag of their most decadent love-making; It’s not particularly swift or demanding, but it feels utterly consuming, and Sherlock surrenders himself to John’s pleasure.

He’s vaguely aware that behind him, John is issuing a rather colourful chain of expletives and vulgar compliments pertaining to what, exactly, Sherlock is doing to him in his current state, but Sherlock has lost the bandwidth to process any of it. He simply loses himself in the sensation of John’s firm, commanding hands running over every inch of his body as he plunders him; across his exposed shoulderblades, over the firm fabric of the corset, across his exposed buttocks, down the lines the garters carve into his milky thighs, onto the shimmering silk of his stockings. The panties are pulled down in back just far enough to frame the globes of his arse, but his erection remains resolutely trapped by the front of them, and he somehow has the wherewithal to open his eyes and gaze down at the vision of his own cock throbbing hotly against them. It’s consumingly erotic, and he whines helplessly at how deviant he feels in them, the sensation magnified tenfold by the presence of John’s cock inside him.

He has no concept of how long they carry on for like that, but the next thing he knows, John’s cock is slipping out of him, leaving him feeling open and bereft. He raises his head off his forearms and turns to berate John; what the hell was he thinking, stopping right now, just when they were--

The next thing he knows, John is grabbing him none too delicately by the ankles, pulling his legs straight out behind him, and flipping him onto his back. Sherlock yelps in surprise, but he can feel a hot throb of arousal course through him; he loves it when John manhandles him, and the look on John’s face as he leers down at Sherlock’s splayed form is enough to make his words of protest die in his throat. He simply arches his back and spreads his legs, imploring John to finish what he started.

But John remains steadfast. Without fanfare, he strips off his own clothes and tosses them into a crumpled pile on the floor, then clambers onto the bed, a wolfish grin on his face.

John gives him an appraising glance from where he’s kneeling between his legs, then reaches down and makes quick work of the garter clasps, releasing the tops of the stockings. Then he tucks his fingers into the waistline of the panties, and meets Sherlock’s eyes once more.

“Lift your hips.”

Sherlock bites his lip. “I. Don’t want. To take. Them off.” 

John doesn’t seem put off by Sherlock’s request; he just quirks an indulgent smile at him. “I know, love, I’m not going to take them off all the way. Just enough that I can be inside you, and so that we can both see them. Does that sound good?”

Sherlock furrows his brow, but nods. He’s not quite sure what John has in mind, but he trusts him implicitly. 

He lifts his hips obediently, and John pulls the panties down to his calves. Then John shuffles forward, lifting Sherlock’s legs until his ankles are perched on John’s shoulders, the panties stretched between them. John reaches down to line up his cock and presses inside, folding Sherlock nearly in half as he braces himself against the headboard.

Sherlock nearly blacks out. The vision of the panties pulled taut between his stocking-clad legs is so dazzlingly erotic that he finds himself willing his Mind Palace to take a picture of it for future perusal. John seems similarly afflicted; he’s staring shamelessly down at the panties as he issues a series of sharp thrusts in to Sherlock’s willing body, and Sherlock sinks powerlessly into supplication as John begins to ravage him once more.

And Christ, it’s perfection. They’re both mesmerised by the near-hypnotic effect of the panties, unable to tear their gaze away from the sultry silk stretched between them. John is swearing and groaning again as he moves against Sherlock, and Sherlock, for his part, is too gobsmacked to make much sound at all. He’s content to simply revel in the spectacle of John’s muscular torso, framed by Sherlock’s stockinged legs hitched over his shoulders, the red silk a punctuation mark on a tableau so obscene, Sherlock prays he’ll never forget a moment of it.

All too soon, John’s thrusts are slowing, and he’s leaning back, trailing kisses across Sherlock’s ankle and down his calf, caressing his legs gently as he does so. Eventually, he peers down at Sherlock, and their eyes meet as John continues thrusting lazily into him.

“How are you doing, love?”

“Good, John. Feels-- nngh!” (he arches as John strikes his prostate directly with his cock) “--Feels good.”

John smiles warmly down at him. “Good. Are you close? Do you want to come again?”

Sherlock takes a lightning-swift assessment of his transport. “Yes. Yes, please.”

“Okay. Here we go, let’s get these off of you…” John peels the panties off entirely, and Sherlock allows his legs to splay open wide, inviting John to press into him deeper, stimulating his prostate more effectively.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“Will you still… my throat?”

John’s brow furrows. “Are you sure you can handle it? Is the corset not enough?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “The corset. Feels good. Like bondage. It’s nice. But I want. A little more. If you. Would, please.”

John’s thrusts still, and he pauses for a moment before nodding. “Okay. Okay, alright. We need to go over our rules then, okay?”

Sherlock forces himself to focus despite the fact John’s prick is still twitching eagerly in his channel. “Okay.”

“Snap if you need to pause. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be counting to make sure we’re being safe. No complaints when I let up. You need to breathe when I tell you to. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“We stop when I say you’re done. If you haven’t come yet, I’ll make sure you get off, but we’re not going beyond our time limit. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Are you ready to begin?”

Sherlock’s gaze is unwavering as he stares evenly into John’s eyes. “Yes, please.”

John gives a resolute nod, then leans forward and gently places his hand around Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock closes his eyes. John cuts off his airflow entirely, and resumes thrusting into Sherlock with unprecedented vigor.

Every synapse in Sherlock’s brain is screaming at him to _fight,_ to _flee,_ but he _can’t,_ he’s _trapped,_ he’s being impaled so forcefully he can’t begin to contemplate an escape. His amygdala lights up like a Christmas tree, the primal emotion of fear forcing its way resolutely to the forefront of his consciousness. John is everywhere, over him, around him, inside him, commandeering his transport, bending Sherlock to his will. There’s nowhere left to go but here, inside this beautiful, crystalized moment.

And then Sherlock feels it. His eyes snap open wide, and he stares down to where John is stroking Sherlock’s turgid cock _with the silk panties._ John hasn’t released the pressure on Sherlock’s throat, so he can’t gasp or moan or verbalise the magnitude of the sensation washing over him. All he can do is spread his legs further, imploring John to take him deeper, and John strokes his cock faster and faster.

John’s grip on his throat suddenly releases, and Sherlock manages to rasp in a few shaky breaths, his head spinning. He can’t tear his eyes away from the image of his own cock, wrapped in John’s dexterous hand and the gorgeous red silk of the panties, throbbing under the effects of John’s ministrations. But before he can even centre himself, John tightens his hold on Sherlock’s throat once more, and the air disappears entirely, and Sherlock is melting, melting, the edges of the room growing dark and dim. There’s nothing but this, nothing but him and John, together, so perfect, so _perfect,_ nothing but this, _nothing_ but this…

He comes.

For the first few seconds of his orgasm, John continues to deprive him of air, and Sherlock flails against the claustrophobic sensation of collapsing in on his own body. Then at just the right moment, John lets go, and Sherlock is soaring, _flying,_ air rushing into his lungs in frantic, shallow gasps as his cock expels pulse after pulse of come into the panties. His orgasm _consumes_ him, and he’s pulled under entirely, awash in the flood of endorphins.

When Sherlock’s brain flickers back online, John is still gently stroking his softening cock with the dampened panties. His other palm lays innocently across Sherlock’s throat, not restricting his airflow anymore, just lightly grounding him, soothing and secure. He’s gazing down at Sherlock with an expression of such pure adoration, Sherlock feels shaken by its magnitude.

“Oh, God, Sherlock. That was beautiful. So beautiful.”

Sherlock musters up the last of his strength to give him a watery smile, which John promptly returns before looking down to wipe the last remnants of come from Sherlock’s spent prick. Eventually, he withdraws the soiled panties, staring down at them with a slightly mournful look in his eye.

Sherlock’s not quite sure what prompts himself to do what he does next. He’s still flying high off the rush from the breathplay and his own intense release, so his inhibitions have clearly been reduced to smithereens, but even so, he even takes himself by surprise when he blinks twice at the panties, and then opens his mouth wide.

John freezes, seemingly reluctant to jump to any conclusions about what Sherlock is offering.

Sherlock gives the panties a pointed glance, then looks back up into John’s eyes, opens his mouth wider, and raises his eyebrows.

John stutters. “Are you… are you sure?”

Sherlock nods, keeping his mouth open as wide as he can.

“Oh, fuck, yeah, okay--” And without another moment’s hesitation, John reaches down and stuffs the panties into Sherlock’s mouth, then grabs him by the wrists, pins his arms resolutely above his head, and begins to fuck him mercilessly.

Sherlock screams. Or, he tries to, but it’s muffled by the moist silk in his mouth and stifled by the restricting grip of the corset around his midsection. He struggles, more for show than anything else, and he can see the feral look emerging in John’s eyes. Sherlock knows that look well; it’s the one John gets when he’s about to take Sherlock down once and for all.

John twists Sherlock’s wrists so that he can grip both of them with one hand, locking Sherlock’s arms into place. With his free hand, he reaches down and once again takes hold of Sherlock’s throat.

John doesn’t cut off his air supply for any notable length of time. He simply oscillates between light pressure and tight squeezes, eyes bright and hungry as Sherlock struggles and flails. All too soon, it’s too much; the fight goes out of Sherlock, and he submits entirely, muscles going lax and eyes fluttering shut, moaning helplessly against the come-soaked panties in his mouth.

John doesn’t last much longer. With one final, firm compression of Sherlock’s throat, John comes. He’s shouting, swearing, wailing as he empties himself into Sherlock’s body in a series of hot, urgent pulses, but Sherlock can’t bring himself to do anything besides take it, surrendering his transport for John to enjoy as he will.

And then John’s hand disappears from around Sherlock’s throat, and the panties are being pulled from between his lips, and John is kissing him, deep and dirty and full of passion as he grinds his softening cock into Sherlock’s well-used hole. Sherlock pants desperately against John’s tongue, dizzy and disorientated and flying so high he feels like he may never come back down.

All too soon, John’s pulling away, pressing light kisses against Sherlock’s fluttering eyelids. Blearily, he blinks his eyes open to find John beaming down at him.

“Hi there, love.”

“Mmm.” He doesn’t have the capacity to verbalise anything of note, but John seems satisfied by his contented hum. He leans down and kisses Sherlock’s forehead before sitting back onto his knees and pulling out of Sherlock as gingerly as possible. Despite his best efforts, Sherlock still whimpers at the sudden feeling of emptiness, but before he can reflect on it too closely, John is pressing his knees together and rolling him onto his side.

“Here we go, let’s get you out of this thing, hmm?” Sherlock dimly registers the sensation of John’s fingers plucking at the lacings along his lower back, and moments later, the compression of the corset disappears entirely.

Sherlock gasps in the first full breath he’s taken in what feels like ages. The room spins and tilts dangerously, and he shudders, gripping the sheets and slamming his eyes shut against the sudden onslaught of sensation.

“Shhh, shhh, it’s okay, nice and easy now, deep breaths…” John’s tone is soothing and calm, and Sherlock arches into the sensation of John’s palms stroking reassuringly up and down his back. He relaxes, and just lets himself breathe.

He’s not sure how much time passes, but when he finally comes back to himself, he’s still lying on his side. John is spooned up behind him, his muscular arms wrapped around Sherlock, holding him close. John’s breath his warm and soft against the base of his neck. It feels lovely.

He swallows hard, and wills himself to speak. “Hi, John.”

“Mmm. Hi, Sherlock. How are you feeling?”

“Good. Very, very good.” Without warning, a fit of giggles burbles up to the surface, and he soon finds himself tittering helplessly into the pillowcase.

Behind him, John lets out a good-natured chuckle. “Oh, it must have been a good one if it was giggle-worthy, hmm?” Sherlock nods enthusiastically before another wave of laughter overtakes him. John just leans down and presses a doting kiss against his shoulder, and lets him ride it out.

This happens, sometimes, after sex with John. All the _emotion_ and the _touching_ and the _sensory inputs_ and the _biological responses_ muddle together into a potent chemical cocktail, Sherlock’s response to which can range anywhere from hysterical sobbing to uncontrollable laughter. John’s learned to roll with it, and Sherlock’s relieved to note there’s very little that can take John Watson by surprise during their post-coital routine anymore. He simply holds Sherlock until he’s composed himself, running his fingers gently through Sherlock’s hair and making doting, amused humming sounds.

Finally, Sherlock’s giggles subside, and John pulls himself into a sitting position. “Alright, you. We need to get you out of these clothes, okay?”

Sherlock nods and lolls lazily onto his back. John rolls his eyes, but willingly indulges him. 

He carefully rolls the stockings down Sherlock’s outstretched legs, then reaches up to gingerly grasp the garter belt. “Hips up.” Sherlock complies, and John shimmies the belt down and discards it as well. Then John prods him into a sitting position and pulls the loose corset up over his head. Sherlock collapses back into the pillows, completely exerted from the simple act of being upright for a few seconds, and burrows deeply into them, letting his eyelids flutter shut once more.

“Ah, hang on there, love, no sleeping yet. I need to check you for tearing. Will you spread your legs for me?”

Sherlock knows better than to protest, and at this point, he’s too exhausted to make much of a fuss. He pulls his thighs up to his chest and grasps himself behind the knees, opening himself for John’s inspection.

“Mmm, okay, everything looks in order on the outside. Is it alright if I touch you inside, now?”

A dim pulse of heat throbs through Sherlock’s chest. God, John is always so _kind_ to him, so _patient,_ asking for his consent _every single time they do this._ It makes Sherlock feel respected and cherished beyond measure.

“Yes, John. Go ahead.”

The words are followed by the familiar sensation of John’s fingers pressing into him. John scissors them a few times while working them in and out; Sherlock ignores the pain and focuses on staying relaxed.

“God, that’s lovely. You’re nice and full of me, you feel that?”

“Mmm. Yes, John.” Sherlock spreads his legs a bit wider, and John indulges himself, plunging his fingers in just a bit more deeply.

“Fucking gorgeous.” John withdraws his fingers, and moments later, he’s collapsing into bed next to Sherlock, flicking off the light with a contented sigh. Sherlock turns to face him, and burrows into his arms. John pulls him close, and plants a kiss to the top of his head.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“You were perfect tonight.”

“God, so were you, Sherlock. So are you.”

_Perfect._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave comments! Leave suggestions! I know I haven't responded to the latest round of feedback yet, but I will shortly-- please know your feedback is super appreciated.
> 
> Stay tuned for a new update early next month:)

**Author's Note:**

> I objectively acknowledge that I promised the next few installments would be ‘one-offs,’ but upon realising I’d waxed poetic about Sherlock in red panties for a whopping 46 pages, it became abundantly clear that chapters would be required for this one. 
> 
> My not-so-apologetic apologies. 
> 
> Come on. You’re not even mad.
> 
> Leave comments!!!


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